Dear Aunt Sophie,
I was disgusted with the way you answered my husband. I warned him about you, but for once he didn’t listen. In any case, you had no right to be so nasty. He is a very nice man, if only a mere simulacrum of my first Senator John.
“John I” would never have found it necessary to air our dirty laundry in public. It is so déclassé to reveal arguments one has had at home. I suppose I should be used to Jean’s mindset by now - he thinks of everything in political terms, like describing our discussion about buying a house on the Riviera as a “foreign policy free-for-all.” He has a kind of tunnel vision right now but I expect that to change after the election. It had better. I can’t wait to get back to where politics is nothing more than an annoying hum in the background.
These stupid “debates” have been driving me crazy. Although Jean does happen to be a very polished speaker who seems to debate as easily as he windsurfs, the truth is he practices, and I am sick to death of coaching him. I don’t know why he’s been so worried about these encounters. His opponent is a ranch hand, for heaven’s sake – a man who probably can’t pronounce “Chateau Neuf.” I don’t see how anyone can even compare him to my husband. He has no style, no polish, no je ne sais quoi. I can assure you he would be a laughing stock at any dinner party.
Another thing that annoys me: those Republicans keep taking things Jean says out of context. Imagine deliberately misinterpreting what he said about wanting to see terrorism become a nuisance. It’s already a nuisance! One can’t stay in a decent hotel anywhere in the world now without having to wonder whether someone won’t blow it up! If that isn’t a nuisance, I don’t know what is. But of course Republicans wouldn’t understand - no one is going to blow up a Holiday Inn, after all.
I am also getting sick of forcing myself to smile. I’d hoped I could have a smile fixed for the duration, but our Botox-genius says it can’t be done. Something about not being able to eat or speak. Whatever. I simply can’t wait to get to the White House so I can be myself again. No one realizes how hard all this is on me.
By the way, Saddle Sores must be green with envy over my husband’s youthful looks. When I look at Jean I still see a shy, charming, earnest twenty-something boy with the beautiful eyebrows. It drives me wild. Isn’t he beautiful? I hope he will still look that way after he’s been president. I’m worried that it may age him. That would just break my heart. Is there any way I can prepare myself, just in case?
PS – Jean tells me Cheney’s daughter is a lesbian. Did you know that?
You have my complete sympathy over the terrible situation in which you find yourself. I can’t imagine the stress of being married to an absentee senator with whom one needs a pre-nup to protect hubby No.1’s inheritance. I suppose it would be less stressful if you had any idea what Jean really thinks about anything, but at least no one can accuse him of being rigid.
How distressing that terrorists are inconveniencing you and your consort. It must be upsetting to think that one day you might have to pick your way over burning bodies to get through the lobby of the Georges V to your limo. It is so hard to do this in heels.
Funny thing - when I look at your beloved I, too, see a young man: a priggish jaw in a uniform, seated before a microphone, lying his treasonous little heart out. If the knowledge that he brought additional torment to his fellow Americans in Vietnamese concentration camps hasn’t aged him, I don’t think you have a thing to worry about when it comes to the presidency. Your Bostonian eye-candy will still look fetching in his kneepads as he grovels before the General Assembly, and he’ll sail through those post-terror-attack news conferences and memorials without acquiring so much as a single frown line.
As it happens, I (and the rest of the world) did know that Mr. Cheney’s daughter is a lesbian. That’s why it was oh-so-unnecessary for Sir Galahad to mention it. But did you notice the charming duck of the head and the underhanded, junkyard-dog glint in his eye as he asked himself whether he really ought to utter that revelation? It showed him at his most appealing.
Don’t worry about the Presidency aging your Dorian Gray. If he’s elected there’s a strong possibility that none of us will get to grow old.
Good luck and God bless.